


To Run Its Course

by personaljunkdrawer



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Far From Home didn't happen, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Sick Character, Sickfic, Tony Stark Lives, peter is 19
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:01:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27217600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/personaljunkdrawer/pseuds/personaljunkdrawer
Summary: So, they’d gleaned that the bite was definitivelynotthe same as either serum. Peter had strengths they hadn’t understood, but he also had weaknesses they didn’t expect; he could get sick, he would be fine, it would just run the whole course in about a day - it suckedtremendously.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 13
Kudos: 70





	To Run Its Course

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Itfeelssogoodmrstark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itfeelssogoodmrstark/gifts).



> Expanded version of a snip I wrote for Itfeelssogoodmrstark. Hope you feel better, hun :)
> 
> Massive thank you to itfeelssogoodmrstark for the idea and WinterIronCap for beta-ing this at the drop of a hat. Y'all are awesome.

The lab reminded Peter of those stories of the Garden of Eden. So much came from the lab - all under the umbrella or guise of scientific advancement. But it felt like an entire epoch of discovery had happened in the years after the blipping and unblipping and snapping and unsnapping. He was an embraced member of the Science Bros - a gender neutral term that had extended to the likes of Shuri, Helen, Jane and Darcy - and he adored his little nerd family.

Eden was the spring of life, but also the epicenter of doom, the Ground Zero of original sin; as the canon story went. Rhodey’s legs and Tony’s resurrection were born of tireless hours in the lab. And so was separating, or rather, understanding the separation between The Bite and The Serum. Born of labs too, was the blessing and curse of Peter’s existence.

Happily separated from the serum, was Peter’s ability to survive and recover. He was strong, he was resilient, he was agile. Some of the tests had been weird, or embarrassing, or uncomfortable, but some others had been fun - he and Tony had even run some of their own little tests for _extracurricular_ fun-times. They’d found that the bite was more similar biomechanically to Bucky’s serum, though, than to Steve’s. He could get injured, he’d just heal quickly - which was wonderful. He could get drunk, he’d just sober up quickly - which kinda sucked.

So, they’d gleaned that the bite was definitively _not_ the same as either serum. Peter had strengths they hadn’t understood, but he also had weaknesses they didn’t expect; he could get sick, he would be fine, it would just run the whole course in about a day - it sucked _tremendously_.

He hated being sick. It horrified him the first time it happened after the bite, a year prior. He’d woken up with a sore throat and thought the bite had worn off and he’d be dead of any vengeful injuries within the weak. Instead, he’d toughed it out for the day between tylenol and tap water, thanking whatever powers that be for Netflix and blackout curtains. By noon, his headache was so bad that he was debating asking May to smuggle morphine home from work at the hospice. By sunset, it had worn off, but the exhaustion was bone deep, coughing rattled him to the core and jarred the vestigial thorns of the headache into a lively second wind. He slipped into the shallow and choppy undertow of sleep before the sky was black. And in the morning he was right as rain.

Thusly, when he felt a tickle in his throat before bed, he’d assumed it would be gone in the morning. Either way, it was mind over matter; between deadlines, and patrols, and trainings, even if it _was_ winter break, he didn’t have time for a cold. There were three weeks he could spend in New York before he had to return to Boston, and he planned to spend as much of it as possible with Tony; being sick was not in the plan. So he tucked himself into bed after a vitamin-C pack, and hoped for a clear tomorrow.

He was wrong. Not in a painful way that slapped him awake with a stuffy nose and a lost voice, but in the way that crept and crawled up throughout the day. He cleared his throat, sniffling between sips of coffee at breakfast; his head was to a dull throb that was becoming less dull by the pulse as he sat through a team meeting - bundled from fuzzy socks to oversized sweatshirt. The uncomfortable heat left his skin feeling extra sensitive, even more so than usual; it prickled up to the edge of his skin, to meet the ruthless frigidity of the room-temperature meeting hall. Steve stopped the meeting at one point to ask him if it was okay, and he wasn't sure if the burning of his cheeks were from fever or embarrassent. It _really_ sucked.

He finally made it to lab time, feeling like a dumpster fire but eager to engage nonetheless. A shiver wracked his spine again as he rolled up his sleeves to finish the micro-fusing of the newest model web-shooters. They’d updated the fluid, it was just modifying the shooter to be attached but removable from the fibers of the suit, more of an encasement that relied partially on nanotech in a capsule. He was soldering it in short bursts, breaks to sit, to breathe, to refocus. 

Necessary breaks because his muscles ached, his mind lulled, his throat had that uncomfortable scratchiness to it. He _loved_ lab time, he loved passing hours with the Science Bros, and his Science Boyfriend, and didn’t want to miss anything. He knew he could power through. He could pass a while on his feet, working away, and then he'd be winded and exhausted. It was his third break in twenty minutes, and he curled over the worktop, resting his forehead on his forearms and rolling his head a bit. The pressure against his forehead felt nice, almost like it forced the inflammation in his sinuses to relax, took some tension out of the headache.

"FRI, power down please." Mr Stark spoke from the lab, the room darkened with the closing of holo-screens and the tinting of windows. Before Peter could ask, he'd taken the precision solder from his hand. Peter sat up, burying a wince at the sudden return of discomfort. His vision took a moment longer to focus, just enough for him to notice. Tony's hand was cool, firm against his forehead. He sighed into it, leaning against the relief, chest heavy as he dragged in the clean lab air. "You're burning up, babe." 

Peter just nodded weakly, with a little hum, “‘M okay.”

Tony made a sound of mild disapproval. His hands came to touch gingerly at the underside of Peter’s jaw, he nearly moaned. His fingers were so cool to the touch, and that careful pressure was tantalizing.

“Open.” Tony said. Peter turned to face him, spreading his legs with a little grin. “Open your _mouth_ ” He clarified. Peter pouted, but opened. Tony gave it a look for a moment.

“Scan, FRI.” There was a brief moment of silence, as Tony stepped between Peter’s thighs, pulling him to rest against his body. He sifted fingers through his curls, soothed a hand down his back. Peter sunk into him and let his eyes close, enjoying the support. It felt easier to breathe.

_‘Mr. Parker is experiencing an advanced cold, Sir. He has a low-grade fever, and mild sinus infection. I recommend medicine, hydration with electrolyte supplement, and ample rest.’_ FRIDAY announced from the ceiling. Peter’s suit lit up gold around the emblem, KAREN’s agreement. Peter groaned. _‘Please take time to recover, Peter.’_ She concluded. He shot her a weak thumbs up, nuzzling his forehead against the firm support of Tony’s chest.

“Don’ feel good.” He huffed, fingers finding Tony’s pants and holding on. He could feel the subdued rumble of Tony’s voice through his torso, the paced cadence of his plan-making; laying out an order of events that would surely end up with Peter and a bottle of fever-reducers spending the evening with borderline-muted Netflix and some Campbell’s.

He didn't quite follow all that was said, he just sunk into Tony's strength as he was guided to his feet. Tony led him with a gentle hand on the small of his back, letting him curl up against him in the elevator as he took miniature naps in his arms. He was warm, and strong, and so good to rest against. It took the pressure from his head, the weight from his chest. It was always like that with Tony, just more pronounced in places above the belt when he wasn’t feeling well. When he got those little morsels of hushed tenderness, while their usual vibe was a frantic tango. The elevator slid open to the top floor of the compound. Tony nudged him up the stairs, slow, and bearing some of his weight, until they’d moseyed into the living quarters.

Tony whispered small orders, “come,” “up,” “here,” and Peter followed through heavily lidded eyes and a throbbing head. He followed to the bedroom, lifted his arms to be divested of his Bad Wolf sweatshirt and donned a much softer MIT hoodie. Tony continued his absentminded planning, the murmur of his voice giving Peter some peace.

"Be right back." Tony whispered, pressing a kiss to his cheek, then his forehead, and lastly his nose. Peter smiled up at him, half in a daze. 

He was deposited wearily into Tony's bed, shifting slowly to feel the smooth bamboo silk of the sheets as Tony left. The sun was somehow brighter through the winter overcast, but dimmed by the blackout curtains. The stillness, the beclouded ambient glow; it reminded him of lying down on little mats for nap time when he was in preschool. Just a temporary rest to reset, before getting back into it - brief, but nonetheless indulgent.

Something in his chest tightened, at the thought of it again. Of being frail and alone, even just for a moment. He hated that feeling, of being fragile. He coughed, winced as his chest protested, curling into the sheets, the supple eiderdown embrace of the duvet.

"Here," Tony spoke. Peter poked out from the coverage, silent but beaming. He sniffled, and reached out a grabby hand. Tony took his hand, kneeling onto the bed beside him, and taking his head against his chest again, sorting curls as Peter soothed himself over Tony’s own worn tee. The quiet whir of a bot filled the rest of the silence, a box on wheels with a touch screen display. It rolled up to the bed, and displayed a question mark.

“He has a cold.” Tony told it. Peter moaned, his back and knees aching, feet sore and fingers cold. He sniffled, burrowing deeper into Tony’s succor. 

The bot beeped some affirmation, almost tilting its display as if to nod in commiserate understanding, and opened it's top. The panel opened with a hiss, depressing and separating to reveal a platform rising from within. It produced, first, a bottle of deep red viscous fluid, medicine most likely. Next came a rounded square bottle of what was likely pedialyte or something akin, with water. A divot opened on the side of the bot, lighting up red; a spigot to refill the water, then. Peter coughed, the display adjusted to the location of the sound, displaying a gif of a cartoon cat petting another cat and placing a kiss with a floating heart on its head.

It occurred to him, then, that Tony had probably made the bot for this reason - for being sick alone, for nursing one’s self back to wellness. And he’d called it to help care for Peter. The same way he’d put arc technology in his suit, and connected their AIs, it was a portion of his heart grafted in to keep Peter safe. It was his love, these gifts. He turned, placing a delicate and chapped kiss to Tony’s clavicle. He returned the affection with a hum, and a squeeze to his hip. Peter shifted back, his cheek on Tony’s chest, eyes watching the care-bot with a fondness.

Then came a squat, glass jar of something vaguely green, a tube of what was likely chapstick, a bag of lozenges; finally, lastly, and most importantly a bowl of steaming soup. Even through his stuffy nose he could smell the grounding spice of ginger, the sumptuous savory notes of umami broth, and more a strong suggestion than a full command of pepper. His stomach managed a lazy growl. He nuzzled in to fit the small spaces between his body and Tony’s, grinning. “Babe, black pepper is a-” he cleared his throat, the bot shifted the lozenges closer “-a vasodilator.” It would get the medicine working faster, even the _food_ had his care written into the recipe.

“It is.” Confirmed Tony in a low voice, placing a gentle kiss to his forehead, thumbs rubbing circles into his temples. Peter moaned at the touch, aching, tinged with the sheer pleasure of relief. 

Tony shifted slowly, keeping an arm around Peter, taking his weight as they moved; Peter letting himself be arranged to lean back against his chest, between Tony's legs. "Maria used to...when I was sick." 

Peter nodded.

Tony’s hands quickly lifted his hoodie, Peter giving only the most flimsy and brief protest.

“Rest here, _caro mio_ ,” He whispered, patting his chest. Peter sunk back against him, the warmth against his skin had him shifting again against the cool silk of the duvet cover in a pleasant bodily agitation. Too sedate to be arousal, but livened enough to just enjoy.

Tony took the green jar from the surface of the bot, the waft of eucalyptus and lemon balm already soothing. He held Peter back against him, smiling as Peter’s hands found his own thighs and traced lazy circles. Fingers coated in salve, he set about - soothing over the bridge of his nose, his upper cheeks, little spots agitated by a sinus infection. He pressed in on the spot between his eyebrows, his temples, headache easing with a shuddering moan. Little kisses fluttered to Peter’s freckled shoulders as Tony worked the mixture against his chest, his neck, everywhere he ached with illness, each breath coming easier. 

When he was done, Tony slipped him into a worn-soft long-sleeve, toasty as if out of the dryer as the bot spat it into Tony’s hands. The medicine was next, a vile hybrid between what was surely the bitter vengeance of robitussin and the cruel astringence of nyquil. He nearly gagged, but it was washed away as quickly as it came - ameliorated by the sweetness of electrolyte juice, the crispness of the salve, and the tenderness of lips.

The food tray detached, little legs coming down to sit on either side of Tony’s thighs outside of his. The first spoonful of the soup had him melting into Tony’s arms with a groan, the pasta at the bottom filling the hunger he’d been skirting all day. He finished the bowl quickly. Tony ordered another to be brought up in a few minutes, with tea.

"Which episode?" He nodded to a projector on the wall.

"Return?" Peter sighed.

“Jedi or Skywalker?” Tony hummed, lips brushing his cheek. Peter giggled.

"Jedi, got it. You heard the man." Tony smiled down at the bot, kissing Peter’s temple, his cheek, his neck, hands still soothing relief over Peter’s limbs as they tucked carefully to their sides. Tony wrapped them both comfortably under the duvet, Peter bracketed in his arms, a bottle of water held to his chest to suckle at as he wished. 

They sunk, then, easily into a warm nest of bedding, Tony working out small aches and keeping him close, protected, with tender touches and gentle words. His heat melted catching pains, and he drifted into a thick slumber before Leia’s disguise could even be foiled on-screen.

It sucked, being sick. But he couldn't bring himself to hate all of it. Some of it was wonderful.


End file.
